Great Fool: Zen Master Ryōkan; Poems, Letters, and Other Writings

Kanshi (Poems in Chinese)

107 Kanshi (Poems in Chinese) My Poems Aren’t Poems The first day of summer I lazily pull on my robes By the water’s edge willows have turned a deep green On the opposite bank peach and plum blossoms scatter in the morning breeze I amble along, plucking blades of wild grass And casually knock at a brushwood gate Butterflies cavort in the garden in the south Turnip flowers choke the bamboo fence in the east Here, in an atmosphere of perfect ease the long summer days stretch endlessly So remote a spot is naturally striking Easily moved by beauty—such is my nature I take a few phrases and they just turn into poems 108 TRANSLATIONS Who says that my poems are poems? My poems aren’t poems at all When you understand that my poems really aren’t poems Then we can talk poetry together Inspiration Shaving my head, becoming a monk I spent years on the road pushing aside wild grasses peering hard into the wind Now, everywhere I go people just hand me paper and brush: “Do some calligraphy!” “Write me a poem!” Kanshi: My Poems Aren’t Poems 109 At Saitò’s Country House Five or six miles from town1 I fall in with a woodcutter Green pines stand erect lining the roadside From across the valley drifts the fragrance of wild plum blossoms Coming here, it always seems as if I’m expected The moment I set down my staff, I feel at home In the old pond, fish are busily swimming The forest is silent; the spring day stretches endlessly before me What’s in the house? One long table piled with books of poetry Utterly at ease, I loosen my belt and robes And picking a few phrases, try to make up a poem2 At twilight when I step out the door for a stroll Spring quail are startled into the air The stone stairs are bright with fresh layers of moss A breeze carries the aroma of cedar and pine It seems the rains are over at last I send one of the children to buy some country wine And after I’m drunk, toss off a few lines of calligraphy 110 TRANSLATIONS Midwinter, the eleventh month The season for wet, heavy snow A thousand peaks, a single hue Myriad paths with scarcely a traveler Yesterday’s wanderings seem like a dream Deep in retreat in my thatch hut All night long I burn pieces of roots And quietly read the poems of long ago I love the remoteness of this place And taking my staff, traveled straight here A cold sky, between the eighth and ninth months A garden grove after the rains The dog remembers me from last year On the eastern fence, autumn arrives with flowering chrysanthemums The people here are plain, like those long ago So secluded a spot is serene of itself In the house, what does one find? Books of poetry and prose covering the floor By nature I shun the clamor of the world When I come here to visit, I like to stay The mind of poetry, the mind of Zen Come together effortlessly * * * Kanshi: With My Begging Bowl 111 With My Begging Bowl Begging When the spring weather begins to turn pleasant I take my staff and walk east into town In the gardens, the willows are tinged deep green Duckweed drifts on the surface of ponds From my begging bowl comes the aroma of rice the offerings of a thousand homes My heart has forsaken splendor and glory Following the path of the buddhas of old I beg my way from door to door On the first day of the eighth month I go into town to beg At dawn, the doors of a thousand homes are flung open The smoke of a myriad hearths slants through the air Last night’s rain has washed the road clean And an autumn wind rustles the rings on my staff3 I take my time begging The universe is vast without end 112 TRANSLATIONS Shelter from the Rain Today, out begging, I’m caught in a shower And take shelter for a while inside an old shrine Laugh at me if you will, caught like this with nothing but a water bottle and begging bowl But mine is a life of poetry with worldly cares all left behind The warbler sings...